Violent Dreams
by studentnumber24601
Summary: You'se a real odd guy, Racetrack. Why can't you sleep at night? [Insomniac!Race. Violence, language.]
1. prologue

_These violent dreams, they get worse I get better  
You know they're the only thing  
That keeps me together..._  
-Thrush Hermit 

**_Violent Dreams_**

Prologue.

Racetrack shuffled the cards.

They felt good in his hands, they made him feel grounded. He knew the movements so well that he didn't need to think to shuffle, he didn't even need to look at the cards. He just did it. It was automatic, nothing but muscle memory, but it calmed him down.

It stopped his hands from shaking, and after his hands stopped, his body stopped, too. And after he stopped shaking, his mind cleared a little. The clouds lifted, and the fog of things that were half-memory and half-nightmare was gone. He thought, just momentarily, about chasing after them, about trying to grab what was haunting him, pin it down, _remember_ _it_, in the hopes that if he managed to remember it, it would leave him alone. But he wasn't brave enough for that.

He wasn't brave at all, really. He was just a good actor, a kid lucky enough to have a good poker face, paranoid enough to be smart, smart enough to keep out of trouble. No one really knew much about him, which was just as well, since _he_ didn't really know all that much about himself.

Like the insomnia, for example. He contemplated it as he shuffled his cards. Only a few of the other newsies knew about it. Back when they were younger and Racetrack was still new to the lodging house, Jack had realized that Racetrack sat up in bed playing solitaire all night, and asked him why. He didn't explain. He _couldn't._ And then, years later, Mush had realized it. They'd been playing cards until almost three in the morning, since Mush was waiting to see if Blink would get home, and he had suddenly realized that Racetrack had no reason to still be awake... And it was the fifth time it had happened in a month.

_"Racetrack, don't you ever go to bed?"_ Mush had asked.

_"Nah,"_ Race had answered, shrugging it off.

_"Don't you need to sleep?"_

_ "Sleep is for weaklings like you an' Jack,"_ he'd answered, and a very sleepy Jack had mumbled at him to shut up and stop being so loud if he was going to be up all night.

_"Why don't you sleep, Race?"_

_ "Can't."_ He always said that, because there was no other way to explain it, once he got caught. Who _never_ wanted to sleep, _never_ needed it? No one would believe that. So he said it, when someone asked directly: he couldn't sleep at night. Nothing _wrong_ with that, really. Except...

_"Why not?"_

And what was he supposed to say to _that?_ If he started telling people he didn't know why not, that there was something that haunted him at night and kept him awake but he had utterly no idea what it was, people would think he was crazy.

Sometimes, _he_ thought he was crazy.

He began to lay out a game of solitaire, something else he didn't need to look to do. _What if I am crazy?_ he asked himself, as he'd asked himself thousands of times before, on so many nights just like this one—nights where he sat up, alone, surrounded by sleeping friends—but alone, always alone. Even if they were awake, he was alone; even if he was playing poker with them instead of solitaire while they slept, he was still alone. No matter how close people were, he was still miles away from them in his mind. They were friends, but he was alone.

The spring air was still too cold for the windows to be left open at night, but at least now no one cared if the shade was up a little. That let in enough light to make his game easier, though he'd play it anyway; he'd play it in the pitch black and make up numbers for the cards if he couldn't see them. The important thing was that he played, not that he played _correctly_. But on nights like this one, crisp moonlight and watery lamplight left the bunk room surprisingly bright, and he could see his cards.

He was content to sit in the bunk room, playing solitaire by moonlight; he was content with the life he led. He knew that selling papers by day and playing solitaire by night wasn't the healthiest lifestyle in the world, that someday he'd pay for living with exhaustion and pretending it was nothing. But he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He just hoped it wouldn't come soon.

[AN: This fic took over a year and a half to write. So probably no one remembers that it's the follow up to _Cigarettes and His Mother's Eyes,_ which was one of the very first fics I wrote. But it should make sense without having read that, thanks to the effort of my fabulous, fabulous beta readers: Shimmerwings, Angel of Harmony and The Second Batgirl, better known as the most wonderful people in the fandom.

More soon. Enjoy.]


	2. one

One.

"I hate mud." Racetrack shifted his weight a little and felt the disgusting stuff cling to his boots, which were now thoroughly encrusted with it. He sighed, shifted his papers to his other shoulder, dug through a pocket and found the money he needed to pay for lunch.

"Yeah, who doesn't?" the vendor answered amiably, then accepted the coin and provided him with a cheap hotdog and gave him a little extra relish without charging for it. "It takes me hours to get this thing cleaned off every night." He tapped a hand against the stand on wheels, but it was an affectionate tap. The vendor enjoyed what he did, and like most people, he felt uplifted as each day became a little longer than the last, as more of the snow disappeared, and buds began to appear on the few sad trees that struggled to grow in the city.

Race nodded pleasantly instead of saying goodbye and began to munch as he walked away. The food wasn't great, but he'd had worse, frequently, so he wasn't going to complain about it. He'd stick to complaining about the mud, which was now coating the treads on his boots. It was going to take forever to get them clean.

Everything around him trumpeted the song of spring, and he didn't appreciate any of it. The birds who returned to the city to chirp annoyed him with their squawking; the children who were outside playing annoyed him with their crying. True, people desperate to be outside after spending the winter cooped up hiding from the cold were now flooding to the Sheepshead Racetrack and so his papers were selling like hotcakes, but the season also meant frequent thunderstorms and mud. Lots of mud.

He hated the mud, and he hated the thunder. He spent hours at night, the hours when everyone else slumbered blissfully, cleaning the mud off of his shoes, and he dreaded each and every thunder roll. It was ridiculous for someone who was nearly seventeen years old to shudder at each thunderclap, but he couldn't stand it. He _hated_ thunder... and a glance up at the sky told him that there was going to be another storm soon. Sure, it would likely wash away the final mud-encrusted snow from the grass, but he hated the ominous clouds that gathered overhead, and he sped up a little in his walk, not bothering to try and sell papers as he went. For the moment, he could let that go; he'd sold enough to be respectable for the day anyway, and he wanted to make sure he had shelter when the rain finally started to fall, and more than anything else, he was exhausted.

He was so tired he was dizzy. Every muscle in his body ached from the effort of staying upright and he was certain a collapse was imminent.

He welcomed it.

So long as he was out of the way, somewhere where no one was going to rifle through his pockets, he _wanted_ to collapse. It might not last for long, but if he collapsed, at least he knew his body would have a little time to recover—he didn't _use_ it at night, but lying awake quietly or sitting quietly didn't restore energy the way sleep did—and if he went unconscious, he knew he didn't have to worry about the nightmares.

On the rare occasion he managed to fall asleep at night—generally every few days, though not as often in the springtime—on those rare occasions, he always woke up with nightmares. Some were worse than others, of course; some made him toss and turn uncomfortably until he woke, sometimes he'd just wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, but there had been that one time...

Years ago now, he couldn't have been at the lodging house for more than a year, he hadn't woken himself up, he'd _been_ woken up by one of the older boys. He'd been screaming in terror at the dream, screaming and shaking and raising hell without waking, and had woken the rest of the lodging house. He hadn't been able to explain the nightmare to anyone, it had been so vivid but faded the moment he'd been woken, and all he remembered was a hand wearing a brown leather glove, holding five cards, probably playing poker.

Just that hand. It was the only real, solid image he could pull from his nightmares and see clearly. Whose hand it was, why it terrified him to think about, he had no idea, but even just wondering about it to himself made adrenaline start to pump through him, and he got jittery and nervous every time he thought about it. So he didn't think about it.

But his insomnia had been worse since then, and had grown worse with time. So the thought of just collapsing, even just for a few hours, was pleasant.

He arrived at his destination and glanced around. The bleachers that surrounded the tracks at Sheepshead were fenced off, of course, and the area underneath them was also blocked off by wooden planks all around. Supposedly, no one could gain entry to the area under the bleachers.

But Racetrack could, and did, almost daily. There were a few holes and a few boards that had slipped out of place, spots that provided entry until they were found and repaired, but new ones always opened up. The area echoed with each footstep that pounded down from above, and the ground was freezing cold cement mixed with spots of mud, and the whole thing was a maze of support beams.

He glanced around to be sure that no one was watching, and slipped in through a loose panel. It was darker and chillier underneath, since no sunlight permeated the bleachers, and he braced himself from the hollow sounds of people stomping above. It sounded almost like a thunderstorm from down below, and soon enough, he knew, there would be a thunderstorm.

_I hate spring,_ he thought again, as he found a dry spot against a support beam, set his papers down, leant against the beam and relaxed. He finished his hotdog and reached into his pocket. There were his cards; he carried them with him almost all the time, so that at free moments like this, when he could feel rising panic from the noise and the dread of the coming storm, he could sit and calm himself. No matter what, the cards calmed him down. He began to shuffle, the slight noise barely audible over the roar of the people above him.

His eyelids began to droop, and he didn't fight it. He shuffled the deck again, and tucked it away, then curled up on the cold ground. The noise was deafening now, he could hear the rain begin to pound on the bleachers and the people in them. They all began to scurry for shelter, and soon the tracks would be mostly deserted, at least for a time. People would come back after the worst of the storm was over, and a few wouldn't leave.

A few like Racetrack, who was protected from the rain, but not the sounds of the storm. He shuddered as the drumbeat of the rain grew louder, steadier, until it was impossible to tell drops from each other. Sheets of rain poured down, and then the thunder started. He was grateful that he couldn't see the lightning, but the thunder was more than bad enough.

As the first thunderclap of the storm died off, Race's mind and body had had enough. He hadn't had any real sleep in almost four days. He shut his eyes, tried to shut his ears to the storm.

He no longer knew or cared if there was a difference between real sleep or passing out. Either way, he lost consciousness.

_He was shaking. There wasn't a lot of light and he didn't want to look around the room, but was afraid to shut his eyes. When he shut his eyes, he just saw it again and again... So he kept them open and scanned the room, squinting to see.._

_A table sat in the center of it, a low-burning lantern on the middle of the table, casting shadows around that made the place even scarier. A few chairs sat around the table, pulled out at random angles because the guys who'd sat there last night didn't care enough to push them back in. The floor was hard-packed dirt in the back and cement at the front, where there was a staircase. It led up six steps to a door which remained firmly locked. There were no windows, no air circulation, and a horrible thing in the corner that he couldn't bear to look at. He could smell it, but refused to look at it._

_He pulled his knees up to his chest, buried his face in his arms, and let his shoulders shake as though he were crying. He _wished_ he could cry, he'd already cried so much, but the tears were gone. He was alone now, he had to be strong if he wanted to survive..._

_Being strong meant he had to stop shaking. He knew that, he knew how important it was. The people upstairs, they'd know if he was scared unless he made himself look and act like he wasn't. That meant no shaking, no crying, no cowering in fear... No matter how much he wanted to. _

_He couldn't _stop_ the shaking, though. The stench made him sick, but he'd already vomited up what they'd given him for breakfast, and he hadn't eaten since. He wondered how long it had been, but didn't care. He wasn't hungry, not really, just tired. He wished for sleep, but couldn't; he couldn't shut his eyes. He didn't _dare_ shut his eyes or he'd see it, and that was scarier than staying awake in this tiny basement._

_Slowly, resolutely, the boy pushed himself to his feet. His body protested, tried to knock him back down with its shaking, but he was determined. Things had happened, terrible things, and he wouldn't let them happen again. He wouldn't let them happen to _him_, not like they had..._

_No, thinking about it would do no good. He walked over to the table and leant forward, laid his hands on the table and let his arms support his body weight while he quaked. Slowly, it began to pass. He reached forward._

_A deck of cards lay on the table, forgotten. He'd seen them playing the night before, when it had happened in the corner. Their game was forgotten after that, and still lay out. He gathered the cards, his hands shaking as he did it, and he made his way back to the wall. Sitting there, the table blocked his view of the rest of the room. There wasn't that much light, but Anthony didn't want light. He didn't want to see. _

_The cards felt foreign to him. His parents hated cards, cards were for gambling, and gambling was a sin. He had never been allowed to play with cards. But down here, there was nothing else for him. He knew sinners went to hell, but this basement _was_ hell, so it didn't matter._

_He pretended he wasn't scared, and carefully began to shuffle the cards, mimicking movements he'd seen but never done himself._

_Eventually, his hands stopped shaking._

Thanks to Skittery's Bad Mood, Nakaia Aidan-Sun, Mydela, Mondie, Jen, Buttons14, C.M. Higgins, Cellorama, Parkranger, LadyRach, TSB, Hephaestion, Omni, Dakki and Sapphy for reviewing.


	3. two

Two.

Racetrack jolted awake, a chill running through him. He was drenched in sweat, but at least not by rain; the bleachers held that out well enough. He started to shake and reached for his deck of cards, shuffled the deck until he regained control of his limbs, then set them away in his pocket carefully. They were his most prized possession.

He didn't feel rested, but his body ached less. No matter what had happened to his mind while he slept, at least his body got what it needed for however long he'd been out.

It was pitch black under the bleachers now, and there was nothing but a faint drizzle of rain from above, but he couldn't really sell papers in the rain anyway. The ink ran and no one bought, and that assumed it was even still day. He had no idea how long he'd passed out for.

His other pocket always had a match and a cigarette or two, and so he struck a light and glanced around to make sure he knew where the support beams were. It was easy for him to memorize things somehow, so even after the match went out, he didn't crash into anything as he climbed back outside, abandoning his papers.

It was twilight, probably around six at night. The storm had broken a little before one... Five hours of sleep. Not bad, for someone who slept as little as he did. Putting the lingering memories of his dreams out of his mind, Racetrack started for home.

* * *

This was the kind of night Racetrack loved. Most of the guys were asleep, or at least lying in bed, but Jack had pulled a small table between two of the beds, Mush had pulled up a chair, and now the three of them were sitting up playing cards. Rummy, not Race's preferred poker, but nonetheless a decent game. It was for fun, not money, but Race didn't mind that, either. He knew he wasn't going to even get his eyes shut that night, not given his nap that afternoon, so he was just as happy to stay up with other people's company.

Even if he felt miles away from the other guys, he still liked to have them around to talk to. Their verbal sparring helped him keep his mind off the dream he'd had, which still floated just beyond his conscious mind, close enough that maybe he could grab it, but he didn't want to. It had left him paranoid, constantly looking over his shoulder, scared but not sure what he was scared _of._ He hated that, and it happened to him all the time.

He reached for the deck, drew a card, smirked, put down four in a row and discarded. Three were left in his hand, the aces of hearts and of clubs, and the two of clubs. If he got a third ace, he could go out; if he got the three of clubs, he could go out. Either way would work, as he had more on the table than Jack or Mush.

"So who's Blink out with this week?" Jack asked, as he picked up the card Race had discarded. Racetrack scowled around his cigar, but Jack just smirked and put out a run from six to eight in hearts.

"Some girl."

"No kiddin'. Who?" Jack pried.

Mush shot Race a look, and Race interjected, "'S not worth learnin' their names, Jacky, it'll be someone else next week."

"Yeah, I guess you'se right. I swear, that guy sleeps aroun' more than anyone in the red light district."

Mush picked up a card from the deck and discarded it in disgust. He glanced over at Race, caught his eye, and shrugged a little. Race half-nodded back, and Jack was totally oblivious to the entire exchange. He had no idea how much Mush hated talking about Blink's dating habits; he hadn't noticed the longing looks Mush had been giving Blink for years now. Racetrack had, but then, Racetrack noticed things like that. He noticed almost everything, one of the side effects of his paranoia was that he forced himself to take in the details other people missed. That way, if anything changed, no matter how tiny, he would see it and it might be a warning. So he'd _seen_ the looks Mush gave Blink, and when they started to get worse, he finally asked Mush about it.

He had been right, though his advice might not have been the best idea. Mush had asked him what to do; he said Mush should just tell Blink how he felt. Mush had, and Blink had blown up in his face. He'd gotten over it, and they made up, but every now and then the awkwardness still struck the two of them. When Blink came in late and didn't have a bed, he slept with his head at Mush's feet instead of face to face. Just little things like that, which no one but Race had noticed.

It was back to Race, who glanced around quickly to see that no one was watching, and took a card that was farther down in the deck. He'd been careful when he dealt, noted where the aces were and subtly left them sticking out a tiny bit further than the others. Not enough that anyone could tell without looking for it, it just looked like the deck had slipped a little when he set it down, but he knew and pulled the ace.

Smirking, he set down the three aces and discarded the two. Mush and Jack groaned and dropped the rest of their cards, subtracted what was left in their hands from what they had on the table, and Race was the winner by far. "We ain't actually playin' to five hundred, are we?" Jack whined, gathering the cards. It was his turn to deal.

"You got somethin' better to do?"

"Sleep," he said. "Some a' us do that sometimes."

"Yeah, shut up and deal the cards."

There was a tap on the window, and the guys looked over to see Blink letting himself in. He shut it after him, the swaggered over to the table. "You want in?" Jack asked. "We're only at eighty each... 'Cept Race, but he don't count."

"Race?" Blink asked.

"One eighty," he answered, smirking. Blink reached out and gestured with an empty hand; Race surrendered his cigar and picked up his cards. His hand wasn't great, but decent, and he'd probably be able to up it a bit depending on what was discarded. Jack didn't shuffle as well as he did, so the cards he needed were probably already being held.

Blink gave him his cigar back, kicked off his mud-coated shoes, and began to unbutton his shirt. "How was the date?" Jack asked.

Blink ducked his head and mumbled something almost unintelligible, and when he looked back up, had a ridiculous grin on his face. That wasn't the way he usually acted, Race noted; this must be the rare girl who'd be around longer than a week. Blink hadn't mentioned sleeping with her yet, and if Blink was willing to wait for that and still was grinning like an idiot when the subject came up, he had to be totally smitten.

Jack and Race laughed a little and mocked gently; Mush smiled, a little forced. Blink hesitated, caught his eye, questioning—_Are you okay?_ he asked silently—and Mush shrugged and half-smiled again. _I'll be fine,_ he'd answered, pretty much. Blink nodded and sat down, kicked his feet up on the table, and waited for the next hand to start. Race smiled to himself; the two of them didn't realize anyone else knew the had silent conversations, let along that anyone else could understand them.

"Hey, you ever wish things was different?" he asked.

"What?"

"Just..." he chewed on the thought for a minute, while Mush played his cards and then Jack did. "I think I just been thinking about things 'cause a' Hannah. She's perfect, ya know? I think... She makes me feel like you do about Sarah, Jack."

"I don' believe my ears," Jack said, and Racetrack picked up the thought.

"Did Kid Blink just say he's in love?"

"I ain't said it," Blink answered defensively. "I mean, she's only been my girl for a week... But it's just, I think about her an' I want to give her everythin' in the world, but I ain't _got_ anything. An' I jus' wonder sometimes... What if things was different? What if my dad... What if my mom hadn't walked out on us, or if she'd taken me with her?" He pulled his feet from the table, leant forward, and drummed a few fingers against the tabletop nervously. "Maybe things would be more normal, an' I'd be able to, I dunno, buy her jewelry or somethin'."

The other three remained silent for a moment. That thought had a lot more to it than most of Blink's did, unless he was smarter than he let on, and somehow, Racetrack doubted that. "Maybe," he said finally, taking the cigar from his mouth and picking up a card which, sure enough, Mush had discarded, "but what if ya'd gone with your mom an' never met Hannah?"

"I hadn't thought a' that."

"I figured."

"Well, what about you, then?" Jack asked him. "You don't wish things was different?"

Race finally discarded one of his useless cards. "I don't know what I'd change." Which was true; of course he _would_ change things, but he didn't know what he had to change. He didn't know what had happened to turn the fairly normal childhood he recalled dimly into whatever his nightmares were, and he didn't know how he went from nightmares to being a newsie, either. It was so odd; he had normal, dusty memories of being a kid and having parents and doing regular childhood things, and then they just cut off, when he was about ten. And that was the nightmare period, and then he remembered wandering the streets for a week or so, running into some of the older newsies, being brought into the lodging house and learning to sell papers. Things started again from there, but there were at least three months of his life that were totally gone from his memory.

"I know what I'd change," Jack said. "I'd a' kept my dad from robbing that damn bank."

"An' I'd a' kept mine away from the factory... Kept my mom from getting sick," Mush said, reminding Race of how different they all were, to have ended up in the same place. Jack's mother was dead and his father was in jail; Blink's mother had left their family and he'd run away from his dad; Mush was an orphan.

And Race was just a mystery.

"But," Mush continued, "we'd never have met each other, would we? I mean, Jack, you'd be in Santa Fe, right?" Jack nodded. "An' I'd be living with my folks an' so would Blink, an' maybe we'd be normal an' in school like Davey. An' Race..." He trailed off. "Where would _you_ be, Race?"

"This is rummy, not twenty questions," Race answered, and since it was his turn again he picked up a card, managed to make a run with it, lay them down and discarded.

"Awright, just askin'."

"Maybe we'd all be happier if we never met," Jack said.

"I think I'm offended," Race answered.

"We'd all be a lot richer if we never met you," Jack responded easily.

"I dunno, I'm glad I know you guys," Mush said, playing a few cards. He glanced over at Blink, who caught his eye and smiled. Race was relieved to see it; those two didn't have to speak aloud to talk to each other, and that had been Blink saying he was glad, too.

"Yeah," Race said, "an' I'm glad too, 'cause none a' you is good at poker an' you all always bet anyway."

"Aw, shaddup." Blink kicked him under the table, and Jack went out of cards. He won the hand, but still was nowhere near Race's score, and this time Mush was dealing, and put out a hand for Blink, too. The game was going to last quite awhile, Race realized, but he didn't mind. He wouldn't be sleeping anyway.

* * *

Thanks to Shot Hunter, TSB, Mondie, Nakaia Aidan-Sun, Skittery's Bad Mood, icanreadncount, Sapphy, Buttons14, LadyRach, Bookey Elliot, Saturday, and Omni for reviewing. 


	4. three

**Three.**

"Remind me ta never, ever play that game again."

"An' I still says you cheated."

"He def'nately cheated."

"I didn't," Race objected, and slapped the back of Mush's head lightly as he walked behind him, took his place at the sink and began to lather his chin. He _had_ cheated, of course, but not the way Mush thought; he'd been keeping everyone's running tally in his head, and Mush had accused him of mis-adding them, deliberately.

"You must'a, 'cause I wasn't _that _far behind. An' Christ, I'se tired now," Blink said, yawned in Race's face, and went to wash his own.

"Ugh, brush yer _teeth,_ would ya?" Race asked, and began to shave.

"Dunno how you do it, Race," Jack yawned. "You always up that late?"

"Yeah." Race glanced around, but no one was really listening. Most people were chattering away themselves.

"You don't never look tired."

"Well, I'm used to it by now. An' besides, I got some shuteye yesterday, durin' the storm."

"How could you sleep through _that_ an' not at night?"

"I'm just talented."

"You'se crazy, that's what it is." Jack punched Race's arm lightly, rinsed the last traces of the shaving cream from his own chin, and groped for a towel. Race grabbed it out of his friend's reach and tossed it across the room to Snoddy, who was looking for one to use in the shower, and Jack tried to chase after it before he had a chance to disappear into the stall.

But Jack saying it so casually like that…

_I'm not crazy, I just can't sleep at night. That's all._ But that sounded ridiculous, and Race didn't dare voice it aloud. Instead, he finished removing his stubble, doused his face with water, and headed out to get dressed. He hadn't slept a wink, but the game had kept him occupied until late into the night, and by the time everyone else turned in—he'd won eventually, of course—the uneasiness brought about by the nightmare and the storm had lifted. So long as there was no more thunder for awhile, he'd be fine.

Everyone headed outside, rushing past Kloppman as he did his morning headcount, and chattered on their way to pick up breakfast from the nuns. Race crossed himself as he accepted a cup of water and an apple, shared the water with Blink, and accepted a ripped off piece of bread from Mush, who finished off the water; they walked on, sharing the breakfast between the three of them.

"Hey—" someone ahead yelled. "Hey, look!" It was Snitch, yelling excitedly and pointing up at the headline chalkboard. He began to read aloud. "_'Murderer—'_ Murderer! Great! _'Murderer-kidnapper,' _man it's just getting better an' better, _'Murderer-kidnapper escapes from prison!'_ Do ya hear that, guys? Great headline, _great,_ you guys _see_ that?!"

An almost electric energy began to spread through the boys. It was the best headline they'd seen in months, the sort that they barely needed to yell to sell, and everyone knew that meant lots of money by the end of the day, enough for dinner and desert, the lodging house, cigarettes, and probably even a show besides. And if the story went on for a few days…

Kids who usually bought twenty papers bought fifty; Race took a hundred and knew he could move more than that if he wanted to, but saw no reason to be greedy. Especially not since he was pretty sure he had a bet that afternoon that was a sure thing.

Jack, smirking, took a full two hundred as Race sat and began to read the story. There had been a jailbreak, as the headline said; a man named Thomas Lerror broke out seven years into a life-long sentence. He'd been arrested along with a handful of other men, for kidnapping and murdering two children.

Race lit up a cigarette and shared it with Jack when he sat down. "Poor kids," Jack commented.

"Yeah," Race agreed, taking it back. "But it sells the papes, so…" He stood, and started to walk out towards the road where he could hitch a ride to Sheepshead. "Massive jailbreak, criminals on the loose! Could be hiding in your basement, protect your family!"

And by the time he hit the road, Racetrack had already begun to sell papers, and the change was jingling in his pocket.

--

"Damn horse," Race mused, lighting up his cigar. "Swear to god, it was in the lead, an' then jus' _stopped. _Jus' like that, in the middle'a the track!"

"Whatever you says, Race," Mush yawned. "I'm headin' for bed soon, I think."

"Broke?" Race grinned at the pot they had going; it wasn't large, but probably contained a full day's salary when everything was added up. And he could use the extra money, since the horse he'd been promised was an absolute sure thing had lost it at the last second.

"Yeah, yeah." Mush rolled his eyes.

"You two wanna keep it down or what?" Jack groaned. He'd given up earlier, not willing to lose the total benefit of a good day's work. He'd sold all two hundred and was temporarily rich; as much as Race would have loved to see all of that up for grabs in a poker game he was certain to win, Jack wasn't stupid and enjoyed keeping some cash around for longer than most of the rest of the guys.

"Aw, sorry, we keepin' you up, Jacky?" Race asked, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

"Christ, Race, just 'cause _you'se_ crazy an' can't sleep never don't mean the _rest_ a' us don't wanna."

"Never said I don' wanna," he answered lightly, ignoring Jack's comment about him being crazy, "just that I can't, ya scab."

"Yeah, well, _I _can. Or I could if you'd jus' shut up."

"For someone who spent all night braggin' about all the papes he sold, you'se in a lousy mood."

"For someone who'd go down in ten seconds in a fight, you'se awful _loud."_

"You threatenin' me, Jacky?" Race was more amused than anything else; sure, he _would_ lose to Jack in a fight, though probably not as quickly as Jack claimed, but he knew Jack wouldn't ever really carry through with the threat. It wasn't as though this was the first time his chatter had kept Jack awake.

"Yeah," Jack muttered, rolling over to face the card game on Mush's bed. "Yeah, so shut up, would ya?"

"Hey, guys," Mush sighed. "Cool it, awright?"

"Sure," Race said. A wave of sleepiness washed over him, but he shook it off; his mind was still too caught up in the excitement of the bet—even though he'd lost—mixed with the excitement of the good headline. He wouldn't have been able to sleep, even if he hadn't gotten a nap in the day before.

"This is my last hand," Mush told him. "Even if Blink ain't back, some a' us _do_ got to sleep."

Race shrugged. "You'd be surprised, how long you can go wit'out sleep," he said, his brain jumping from subject to subject. He didn't feel like sitting alone playing cards, for some reason; the headline had left him downright _giddy_ and he wanted to be up and moving, or at least talking to someone. Even if it meant talking about his insomnia, a subject usually firmly off limits.

"You'se the expert. How _do_ you manage? You always seem so… Alert."

"Just 'cause I'm tired, I don't let my guard down," he said, then, "like now, I can see from your face you got a decent hand."

Mush blanched a little. "What was on my face?"

"You got a _lousy_ poker face, Mush. It ain't what's on your face now, it's what ain't. When you get a bad hand, you stare at your cards and think real hard, like they'll change what they are 'cause you'se thinkin' so much. When you got a _good_ hand, you can't hide it, you always grin. Right now, you'se just… relaxed. So you got an okay hand."

"Wow." Mush stared at him, then shrugged and played his cards. Race was right, his hand was decent, but Race's was better. Mush sighed, leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Yeah, 's time for bed."

"Aw, one more hand?" Race asked. "I'll spot you the cash."

"So you can take it back again? I'm _tired,_ Racetrack, I was up all night last night. You an' Blink, neither of you sleeps. I don't understand how, but I'm going to bed."

"Fine." Race gathered up the cards and gathered up his winnings. As Mush lurched into bed, Race dragged the table back to where it belonged and flounced down on to his bed. He wasn't even dressed for sleep, since he knew he wouldn't be sleeping anyway, and he closed his eyes and crossed his arms.

That got boring quickly, so he sighed, sat up, and began to shuffle the cards. It was nice not to have shaking hands for a change; he was in a strangely good mood, too antsy to sit still, and even when he dealt the game of solitaire, his mind began to wander back and forth. He played the game to its conclusion, even though he knew halfway through he'd lose it, regathered the cards and shuffled. "Jack," he half-whispered. "Jack? _Jack!"_

"Christ, what is it?" Jack sat bolt upright, half-panicked.

"You awake?"

"Am I—I hate you, Race." Jack lay back down and glared at him through the dark. A few other people stirred. "It takes _energy _ta sell that many papes. I'm _tired,_ an if you wake me up one more time—"

"Just askin'. I'm _bored."_

"Take a walk or somethin', then. You'se keeping everyone awake."

"Only you."

"That ain't enough?" He grinned.

"'S after curfew, though."

"So?"

"So it's cold out."

"So—so go take a damn walk or shut the hell up or something. You'se makin' me as crazy as _you_ are."

"Maybe that's the point," he said in a sing-song voice.

"Race, I'm counting to ten, an' then—"

"Shut _up_, would ya?" That was Skittery.

"Yeah, _Jack_, shut up," Race mocked.

"Race, I'se gonna soak you _so_ bad…"

"Would you _all shut up?"_ This time it was Jake, half-growling in his almost-asleep state.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm gonna go take a walk," Race sighed.

_"Good!"_ about four people yelled. He grinned. If he couldn't sleep, he saw no reason why everyone else should get to. But, as he had no urge to actually egg someone on into trying to kill him, he pocketed his cards, pulled his shoes back on, and made his way out the window.

No sooner had his boots scraped the fire escape than he looked down, and could see Blink staring up at him from the ground. It was hard to make out anything too distinct through the holes in the metal, but there were only so many blond guys who'd be out in the alley late at night, and intuition made things clear. "Heya, Blink," Race called.

"Where ya goin'?" Blink asked, as Race let himself down the two stories to join him on the ground.

"Jus' for a walk or somethin'. Feelin' too jittery to sleep."

"You never sleep anyways, though," Blink pointed out.

Race punched him in the shoulder. "How was your date?" he asked.

"Great." Blink grinned, then tried and failedto wipe the look off his face. "Hannah wants ta meet everyone soon, an'… She says tomorrow she's takin' me to meet her family."

"You serious?"

"Sure I'm serious. I… I don' usually stick aroun' long enough to meet people like that, though. Usually, I find out my girl has brothers an' I'm out the door."

"Or window."

"Yeah, or window. But what if…" he trailed off. "I ain't good at being a boyfriend, ya know? What if her folks hate me?"

"They ain't gonna hate you," Race said.

"How do you know?"

"'Cause you love their daughter. Any parents'll just think you got good taste," Race assured him. "Well, I'm goin' fer a walk, so…"

"You want ta get a drink or somethin'?"

"What?"

"I don't feel like turnin' in yet—gettin' used ta being up 'till all hours, like you."

"Trust me, it _ain't_ like me."

"Yeah, whatever. I just… Don't feel like going ta bed yet. I'm excited." He paused. "Unless—Mush ain't still up, is he?"

"Nah."

"Okay." Blink let out a slight breath. "I never know what to do 'bout him no more."

"Let's go get that drink. You know anywhere open?"

"Yeah."

They walked in silence for a minute. "Race, I know I asked you b'fore an' you didn't want to tell me, but… _why_ can't you sleep at night?"

"Dunno," Race answered truthfully, as they turned a corner.

"How can you not know?"

"'Cause I…" He trailed off. "I used ta get these nightmares… I'd get these awful dreams an' wake up scared a' my own shadow…"

"I remember you screamin' your head off one night. I'd only been at the house a week or two."

"Yeah, yeah, that was the worst of it. After that… Nightmares like that make a guy want to stay awake, ya know?"

"What do you dream about?"

Racetrack hesitated a little before speaking. This wasn't as awkward as he had expected. These were questions he'd asked himself thousands of times as he lay awake at night, and he'd always feared answering them out loud… But Blink was a good friend, and for reasons he didn't understand, Race just felt like talking. Talking about this wasn't as bad as he'd expected, even. "I don't really remember after I wake up," he said finally.

Blink tapped his shoulder and pointed into a fairly grimy looking building. They walked in, and the stench of smoke and booze was almost overwhelming; the place was clearly not the most reputable in the world. But no one would ask them questions like how old they were, and the drinks were cheap, so that made up for the atmosphere.

"When I wake up," Race continued, as they waded through a sea of smoke, splintered furniture, past huge drunk men and the occasional huge drunk woman as well, "I just sorta… I remember that there was someone, someone playing cards. He had brown leather gloves, but I can't remember anything else about him except that I'm terrified of him." He shuddered a little, as Blink dug into a pocket, found a coin and slapped it down on the bar. He echoed the movement. "Whoever he is… I think he musta taught me to play cards, 'cause I don't remember learnin' it in the lodgin' house, an' I know my parents never woulda taught me. They was real religious."

"So why's he scary?" Blink asked, flagging down the bartender. He gave them a dark look, but provided two large mugs of watered down beer.

"I don't know." Race shook his head a little and took a drink. "But I think that in the dreams, he did something to me, something real bad. I can't remember it once I wake up, I just know that he's a scary son of a bitch."

"Well, dreams is just dreams, right? It don't mean nothin'."

"Yeah," Race agreed. "You're right." He took another drink, only willing to discuss things so far. How was he supposed to tell Blink that he knew it _did_ mean something, he just didn't know what? That these dreams, these nightmares that terrified him beyond words even though he couldn't remember them, that they had _happened_ somehow. During the months of his life that were missing, he'd known the man with the brown gloves, and been scared of him, so scared that years later, without even remembering why he was terrified, the man was still keeping him up at night.

There was no way to explain it, so instead, he just polished off the drink and ordered another. Blink did likewise, and though they started talking again half-way through the drink, Race steered the conversation back towards Hannah and away from the shadows of his past.

--

Thanks to Artist2519, Skittery's Bad Mood, Mage Ren, TSB, Sapphy, Buttons14, LadyRach, Hepheastion, Saturday, Shot Hunter, Omni, and Gryffin Parker for reviewing.


	5. four

**Four.**

Normally, Race just skimmed the articles and then concentrated on the sports section. But the headline was still fabulous, an update on the previous day's story, and this time the article went into some detail about the crime itself.

Race read, spellbound, not sure why the story captivated him so much.

_Thomas Lerror was arrested six years ago, along with his brother, Christopher Lerror, and several others. They were initially charged with kidnapping two children, and the charges were later raised to murder when one body was discovered buried in Lerror's basement. _

_Parts of the case still remain a mystery. The two children, Nicola and Anthony Verdi, were ages 12 and 9 at the time of their disappearance. Only Nicola's body was found; Lerror and the others involved deny having killed Anthony, yet he was nowhere to be found the night of their arrests, and has not been seen or heard from since his kidnapping. At the time of his trial, Christopher Lerror stated that the last time any of them had seen Anthony was the night before their arrest. He assumes that Anthony had somehow escaped and contacted the police about the criminals' whereabouts, yet the police deny ever having been contacted by Anthony Verdi._

_Nicola's body was discovered the day after the criminals' arrests, already largely decomposed. Experts found that he had been shot twice, once in the shoulder and once in the head. At the time of his trial, Lerror pleaded innocent to the accusations, but testimony from other gang members proved him guilty. Others were charged with aiding in the murder._

_Mr. and Mrs. Verdi have declined to comment on Lerror's escape directly. Mrs. Verdi has only said that not a day goes by that she doesn't grieve for her two lost sons._

Racetrack's hand was shaking by the time he finished reading, so he folded the paper again, set it down, and lay his palms flat against the cobblestone beneath him. It would look too strange for him to start shuffling his cards while he'd normally be reading headlines and heading off to sell, and so he just waited, and hoped that no one noticed his slight trembling.

"You read this?" Jack asked, shaking his head in amazement.

"Yeah," Blink said, stepping up behind him. "What do you think happened, Jack?"

"How should I know?" Jack answered. "Prob'ly just what the guy said. The kid ran away an' called the cops."

"But how'd he get away?"

"Do I look like I was there or somethin'?" Jack snapped. "What do you think, Race?"

Race shrugged a little. "What, do _I_ look like I was there?" he asked back. "Prob'ly they killed the other kid an' didn' want to get charged with a double-murder."

"They did anyway, though."

"But by the time they knew they was guilty, it was too late to change their story."

"Oh… That makes sense, I guess," Blink agreed. "Poor kids. At least we all got away from guys like that…"

"Yeah." Race slung his papers up onto his shoulder, nodded a quick goodbye and struck out for Sheepshead. Hitching a lift on the back of a trolley without being noticed _and_ without dropping his papers took a lot of talent, but he'd had years of practice and could almost doze off the whole way to Sheepshead, or would have if he was _able_ to doze.

Nothing remarkable happened for most of the day, and the skies stayed clear of storm clouds, for which he was grateful. He sold almost all of his papers, got lunch, played a few games of solitaire under the bleachers, and headed out to watch the afternoon's race and try and sell of his last few papers. He climbed up into the stands and began to call out headlines—most of them almost accurate, for a change—and was nearly done when he glanced over and saw someone who caught his eye.

Racetrack didn't know who it was, but the man had short-cut brown hair and was wearing patched, second-hand clothes. But something about him gnawed on the edge of Race's mind; he couldn't remember ever having seen him before, but the shape of his face and his posture all seemed achingly familiar—and unpleasant. Race suppressed a shudder and was about to turn around and find another section of the stands to sell in when the main raised a hand and called for a paper.

Race swallowed hard. His hand was beginning to shake and he had the urge to turn and run, but he was afraid someone would see him run away. And besides, he knew he was being ridiculous; no matter what his subconscious told him, he knew full well that there was no reason why the man should recognize _him_ if he didn't know who the man was. And if there _was_ a reason for the man to recognize him but a chance that he hadn't yet, turning and fleeing would just make the man realize who he was.

So, carefully keeping up his poker face up and trying not to look like he was about to bolt, Race tossed the man his paper. A brown-gloved hand reached out, snatched it from the air, and then pitched a penny back at the newsboy. Race caught it and pocketed it, _then_ began to pick his way back down the bleachers, no longer trying to sell his papers, concerned only that he get out of sight and get his thoughts sorted out.

He had no idea who the man was, aside from a familiar figure—but he was a familiar figure wearing brown gloves, and that alone made Racetrack want to hide. He dashed back under the bleachers and all but collapsed on to his knees, splitting the cards between his hands before he had finished sitting down, shuffling the moment he was able to… But he was barely able to keep his hands steady enough, and he fumbled the deck, dropped the cards in the mud.

The images started to flood into his mind as he gathered the cards off the ground. A hand, clad in brown gloves, five cards clutched in it.

No, it wasn't cards in his hand. Race blinked, and the cards were a gun. Fingers wrapped in leather, clutching a gun.

Why was he seeing this? He was awake. These were his nightmares; he was awake, it was impossible. But there it was in his mind, clear as day, the hand and the gun.

One of the races must have ended because people started cheering and stomping in the bleachers. The stomping became thunder to his ears. No, that wasn't right either. The thunder became the quick snapping of a snare drum; _crack crack,_ and then silence.

No, it wasn't a snare, it obviously couldn't be. The brown gloves, the gun. It was gunshot. He'd shot it, twice.

Race closed his eyes. _Crack._ A body, a child's, collapsed backwards into the corner. Blood poured down his shirt. Eyes caught the dim light and went wide, scared, in pain. _Crack._ His head jerked back, a hole in the skull. Blood exploded against the wall, blood and something else, probably brain. It bathed the wall.

He tore his eyes open, tried to banish the images from his mind. They wouldn't go. He didn't see it now, exactly, but it was there, beneath the surface; if he dared to shut his eyes, even to blink, he saw it. He saw some poor kid get killed.

He dropped the cards, shaking too hard to hold on and shuffle, and retched. His stomach emptied itself of everything in it, and continued to retch, but even that was a reminder. He could remember now, he'd thrown up; the taste and the feel was exactly the same and he was suddenly back there, back in a cellar, seeing a murder and being unable to stop it, lying there helpless, scared for his life, terrified for his brother—

_His brother._

The thought struck Race, cutting through his terror and parting it like halves of an apple falling away from a knife. He had a brother. Or rather, he'd _had_ a brother. His brother was dead, he'd been killed.

"My fault," Race whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and scratchy as though he'd been crying, though not a tear had escaped. He didn't know why, exactly, but he knew it with a dead certainty; whatever had taken place was _his fault_. And he probably could have figured out how and what had happened—he forced himself to pick up the deck of cards again—but didn't dare. He knew too much already, he knew things he'd made himself forget, he'd seen too much.

He broke the cards between two hands, and stared down at them. Concentrated. Tapped the two halves against each other to straighten the pile. Good. Thumbs next to each other, forefingers bending the cards, and then let them go. The sound of the shuffle helped. He took a deep breath and did it again. And again.

The images wouldn't go away, but his resolve to ignore them strengthened. He stared down through the dim light at the cards in his hand; forced _that_ to be what he saw, forced the shuffle to be what he felt, focused on the present, and wondered how long it would be before he felt safe enough to venture outside.

**Sorry for the delay. Thanks to l-dhensen, cabingirls, Taa, Rumor, Arlene, Misprint, Buttons, Yuki Kurai, Omni, TSB, LadyRach, and Artist2519 for reviewing.**


	6. five

**Five.**

It was almost one AM by the time Race got back to the lodging house. It had taken him hours to stop shaking and regain some control of his mind, and even longer to overcome his paranoia and convince himself that no one was waiting for him in the bleachers. Even so, he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, changed rides half a dozen times, and varied his route so no one could follow him.

He let himself in through the upstairs window, since it was hours past curfew, and sat down on his bed. No one else was awake, and for a change, he wasn't even sleepy. He was thankful for that, too; when he shut his eyes, he still saw it. He began to restlessly shuffle the cards and play solitaire, staring at the cards, forcing his brain to think of nothing but the numbers and colors.

He was still playing when light began to spill under the shade; he was still playing when Kloppman came upstairs and began his daily battle to get the newsies out of bed. He stopped and threw Race a sideways look; this had only ever happened once or twice before, since Race was usually careful enough to at least pretend to sleep.

Race waved good morning and gathered the cards as others began to rouse. "You look tired," Jack commented quietly, as they took their places at the sink.

"I'm okay."

"You was out late last night."

"Yeah."

"Date?"

"Card game," Race answered, not exactly lying. Solitaire _was_ a card game.

"That all?"

"Yeah."

Jack shrugged. "All right. 'S just… You looked tireder 'n normal."

"Don' worry about it," Race answered, and splashed his face with the cold water. He hoped he sounded more upbeat than he felt, but couldn't quite get the enough spring in his step to match everyone else's.

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

No, it wasn't even that. He _wouldn't_ sleep. Racetrack refused to sleep; he refused to shut his eyes and try to doze, he just would _not_ do it. He sat in the dark under the bleachers, smoking and playing solitaire in the least muddy area he could find, and refused to sleep. When he finished lunch, he'd go sell the afternoon edition, something he hadn't done all spring; that was when he'd normally try and nap. But he didn't want to sleep.

When he slept, he dreamed. Same as always. But the dreams were so much more vivid now, and they weren't fading anymore. He could remember seeing his brother get shot, he could remember the hand with the brown gloves pulling the trigger. He saw it in his mind, whenever he closed his eyes.

So he just wouldn't close his eyes. He hadn't slept regularly in years; no reason to start now.

But he was so _tired._

He flipped over another few cards. It didn't matter that he was tired; he was always tired. That's what happened when a person stopped sleeping, he got tired. He had napped what, two days ago? Three? It didn't matter. He didn't need sleep anyway. He certainly didn't want it.

He played a few cards, and noticed to his surprise that he had the game won. Not officially yet, but the four aces were in place with at least a few cards on each, and he'd uncovered the rest of the piles, with only a few cards left in the deck.

So he finished the game, and finished his lunch, and went to sell papers. He could have done all three sleep-walking.

* * *

"Racetrack?" Jack asked, nudging Race with his elbow. He'd very nearly drifted off in the booth at Tibby's.

"Hmm?" Race asked, grateful to be awoken.

"You okay? The past few days you seemed really… Tired."

"Fine," he said, and shook his head a little to clear it. He reached for Jack's soda, hoping it would wake him up the way it did for some guys, and Jack gave him a suspicious, concerned look and surrendered it. Race wanted to grin and joke and assure Jack he was fine.

But he just didn't have the energy for it.

* * *

"They still ain't caught Lerror," Snitch reported, reading the headlines as they were written. "But some people seen 'im around Sheepshead. There's money for findin' 'im now, too. Heh, Race, maybe you'll catch 'im!"

Racetrack looked at the article and shrugged tiredly. Five days without sleep. He was used to acting more awake than he felt, but he'd never gone five full days without sleep before. He was exhausted; he _ached_ with exhaustion. But damned if he would sleep. Damned if he'd let himself see…

"I don' feel like going to the races today," he mumbled, trying to keep pace with the rest of the guys, but finding he didn't have the energy to keep up with their morning rush.

"You _serious?"_ Snitch demanded, then, "Can Skitts an' me take your spot for today, then?"

"Sure, whatever." Racetrack yawned. "Jus'… Jus' remember 's _mine…"_

"Yeah, sure. Hey, Skittery!" he yelled and bounded off to catch his partner while Racetrack fell in line.

* * *

"Did ya catch 'im?" Mush asked wryly, as Snitch and Skitts arrived home for the night. He nudged Race with his elbow and laughed; Race managed a half-hearted smile, but even that was almost too much effort for him. He just wanted to _collapse…_

But as much as he wanted to, he wanted to keep his tentative grip on his sanity even more. And that grip felt like it was slipping, slowly, every hour…

"Nah," Skittery answered. "Snitch says he seen 'im, but wasn' sure."

"Problem is, there ain't no good pictures of 'im!" Snitch answered, annoyed to have a substantial reward possibly get away from under his nose. "Can't catch a guy if you don' know what he looks like. You know what _I'd_ like to do? Find that Verdi kid, if he's alive, an' bring _him_ ta Sheepshead. Don' ya think he'd know if he saw 'im? Better 'n anyone else would."

"Yeah, I guess," Skittery answered, rolling his eyes. He'd heard about almost nothing else all day.

"What? It could _work."_

"Yeah, sure, but how you gonna find the kid?" Jack asked from the staircase where he was sitting and smoking. "He's prob'ly dead anyway."

"I dunno, thought maybe we could try sellin' aroun' where they used ta live—see if maybe he haunts the ol' neighborhood or whatever. Scene a' the crime an' all that."

"But why would a kid go back to where he'd been tortured, dumbass?"

"Awww, I dunno. It was jus' a thought. Maybe go ta his parents' house, then, see if he hangs aroun' _there."_

"Obviously he _don't,_ don't you think they'd a' found him by now if he did?" Blink put in, stepping over Jack on his way down the stairs. He was off to meet Hannah for the evening.

"Yeah, sure, but it ain't like anyone's _seen _'im. Maybe he don't look like when he was a kid, I mean, there's a big difference between ten an' seventeen. His own parents prob'ly wouldn' even recognize 'im!" Snitch said stubbornly.

_Parents,_ Racetrack thought vaguely, almost too tired to think. _The poor kid's got parents… where ever he is… parents and a dead brother._

Race swallowed hard, the conversation about the missing Verdi kid making him think more than he wanted to. He wished everyone would just shut up; he wished the police would just catch Lerror already, so the papers would stop writing about him. So that Race could stop thinking of him, and the poor tortured kid who'd lost a brother, just like he had…

_Just like I did._

Race felt sick and he wanted to bolt as the debate continued around him; it seemed like everyone had something to say, but Race couldn't really keep track of it. He was feeling so oddly dizzy, like he couldn't focus on anything he saw or heard. Finally Snitch nudged his arm. "Well, Race?" he demanded. "Whaddaya think?"

"What?"

"What do you _think?"_ Snitch said again, more slowly. "Christ, you been outta it lately. You think Verdi's still alive, or what?"

"I dunno," Race answered. "Prob'ly not." It amazed him he'd even gotten the sentence out. _He's probably dead like his brother and like my brother…_ He clutched at the table suddenly, his hands shaking fiercely and so dizzy and scared and nauseated that he couldn't even pretend he looked normal anymore. All he could do was fight to stay conscious…

"See, I _told_ you!" Skittery crowed triumphantly, but Race didn't hear it. He also didn't see it when Jack stood up and made his way over to where Race was shaking, an abandoned game of solitaire in front of him.

"You been playin' lots a' solitaire lately," he commented, offering Race the end of the cigarette.

"Yeah," Race agreed, his voice cracking, ignoring the cigarette. It was all he could do to pretend he was okay; maybe if he didn't hold his hand up where Jack could _see_ it, Jack wouldn't see how much it was shaking… He glanced down at the game; he'd almost forgotten he was playing.

"You okay? Everyone's startin' ta notice that you'se a bit… Off."

"I ain't off," Race answered, fighting to get the words out. He hated Jack for making him talk; the fact that it was because Jack was worried didn't even register. "Jus' tired. You know I don' sleep at night." There. Maybe _that_ would satisfy him, maybe Jack would leave him alone so he could shake and pretend it was fine and that he wasn't about to pass out…

"Yeah, but usually you at least _looks_ like you does. Things gettin' worse or what?"

"I jus' ain't got the energy to pretend this week. It's… the damn weather..."

"Race, the weather's been _gorgeous_ this week, an' the sellin' 's been _great._ So don' lie, jus' tell me what I can do ta help, awright?"

"Ain't nothin' you can do, Jack." Race slid his hand across the table, began to sweep the cards into a pile to shuffle.

"Jus'… Jus' let me know if there is. We can't have you go crazy, now, can we?"

"I ain't crazy," Racetrack answered, defensive despite everything. His sanity was all he had left, he realized; damned if he'd let that go without a fight. So he gathered up the cards from the solitaire game; he didn't remember if he had been winning or losing, and he didn't care. He shuffled the deck. It helped a little. "I _ain't,"_ he said again.

"Sure thing, Race. Whatever you say. Jus' try an' get some sleep tonight, awright?"

"Yeah," Race answered, lying easily. It was certainly easier than telling the truth. _The hell I'll sleep tonight,_ he told himself. Better exhausted than asleep.

But he couldn't help it. Four days without shutting his eyes; it was out of his control. He fought against it, too tired to even realize how _strange_ it was that he was trying _not_ to sleep when he'd spent years desperately trying _to_ sleep. But he didn't want it. He didn't want any more dreams.

But…

He clutched the cards desperately, even as people started to go to bed; he sat cross-legged on his bunk and played in the dark. He won another game, then lost three, then won again. He was improving, he realized; even as much as he played he didn't usually win one out of four games. He'd have been impressed with himself, but he was too tired. His mind only had the energy to focus on one thing, on the cards in front of him.

_I'm not crazy,_ he told himself firmly, shuffling the deck. _I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not…_

It was like a mantra. He was so scared he was crazy and that was causing all of this. What if they found out? What if they locked him up somewhere?

Somewhere like the hellish basement he was trying desperately to avoid remembering?

_…not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy._

He lay out another hand of solitaire and wondered what time it was. He was usually pretty good at guessing the time in the middle of the night, but wasn't used to being quite this exhausted, and it had thrown him off entirely. _Crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm…_

He glanced up from the cards and around the room. Blink was still out. It couldn't be too late, then. Which was rotten to realize; he really _wanted_ it to be late. He wanted to get the night over with as soon as possible. It was just as likely he'd fall asleep during the day as the night, now, but it felt so much easier to sleep at night, when it was dark and quiet… At least if he went to the races, there'd be enough noise to keep him alert.

Not that he'd go to the races, not with Thomas Lerror walking around down there, wearing brown gloves. Not that he was certain it was Lerror he'd seen in the tracks, or Lerror he'd seen in his nightmares, but it was an awfully big coincidence that he started remembering things and having dreams just as Lerror became news. And he remembered having an older brother, now, and that the brother _died._

It was an _awfully_ big coincidence.

He shuffled the cards some more, and didn't think about it. _Not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy._

He lay out a hand of solitaire.

_Not crazy, I'm… Not… Crazy. I'm not, I'm… I'm crazy…_

He swallowed hard and shook the mantra from his mind. The more he repeated it, the more he would have _sounded_ crazy to anyone who knew what he was thinking. Only someone totally crazy would have tried so hard to convince himself he was sane, and Racetrack refused to be crazy.

His eyelids felt so heavy. He desperately wanted to shut them for just a minute, but couldn't let himself.

_Parents,_ he remembered. _I got parents… If that's _me_ I got parents, but I can't be sure if it's me…_

But he didn't want to think about it.

Almost angrily—he didn't have the energy to be angry—he played a card. He began to narrate the game to himself, making himself concentrate on it. Nothing else could get past his iron wall of cards; the solitary confinement he'd created. Nothing.

Nothing but sleep.

He began to drift off; the solitaire game became more distant, and he forced himself back to wakefulness. _King on empty space; Queen on King; there's a whole pile there with a Jack at the back that I can move, flip over the card. Nothing. From the deck, then. Ten. Damn, I already have the Jack covered._

But his narrative became less descriptive as time went on. _Black four, red five… Ace. Two, three, four. Queen of hearts… Jack of spades… Ten, nine, eight…_

And then was gone. He stopped playing. He kept his eyes open. But it didn't matter, because he was asleep with open eyes.

**Thanks to The Dairy Queen, Artist2519, Rumor, Madmbutterfly713, TSB, zshp1411, Cakes, Charlie Bird, Omni, and LucyRocks73 for reviewing.**


	7. six

Six.

_There was yelling upstairs. How long had there been yelling for? Every night, for what felt like weeks and weeks… How long had they been there? Nicola had kept count at first, scratched marks into the mud to remind him. But he forgot days, and then gave up, and now all he or his brother knew was that it was a _long_ time. An eternity._

_"Goddamn well _going_ to pay for the little fuckers, we went to all the goddamn _trouble_ and I swear if he don't pay in the next fucking _week—"

_"Tom!" broke in the other voice. There were four or five faces the boys had come to recognize, but only two who seemed to have names. "Tom, calm _down,_ this ain't going nowhere, don't you see? Christ, Tom, if we get caught—"_

_"We ain't gonna get caught!" the first voice roared. He was the one who was _really_ in charge, the one who always threatened them._

_"C'mon, Tony," Nicola said, and stood. He nodded towards the table; they'd been given a deck of cards to play with. "Let's play war."_

_"N-no," Anthony stuttered. "I don't wanna, I want… I want to go _home…"

_"I do, too," his older brother assured him. "C'mon, it'll be okay. Papa'll find us. Promise."_

_"You really promise?"_

_"I really promise."_

The memory faded. Racetrack could feel himself shaking, but couldn't force his mind to break free of the images.

_The door slammed open forcefully, and the guys playing poker in the basement all looked up. So did Nicola and Anthony, sitting in a corner, waiting for everyone to leave. They didn't dare talk or move around when other people were downstairs._

_"—You _can't_ do that, Tom!"_

_"Don't you dare tell me what I can and can't do!" Thomas Lerror shouted over his shoulder, thundering down the stairs, his brother at his heels. He had his gun out. Nicola reached over and grabbed Anthony's arm protectively as Lerror started yelling at everyone to get out of his way. He gestured with the gun, told the boys to stand up _or else,_ and began to aim._

_"Tom, we _need_ them, you can't—"_

_"Shut up."_

_He turned to the boys._

_"Your dad still ain't paid me," he said. "He don't think I'm serious. It's time to show him how serious I am."_

_He leveled the gun at Anthony, but Nicola pushed him out of the way, stood protectively in front of him. "Leave… Leave him alone," Nicola said, his voice shaking but still firm._

_Lerror laughed._

_"Get outta my way, kid, unless _you_ wanna get shot."_

_"Leave him alone!" Nicola repeated, speaking so quickly and furiously now that his accent made him almost impossible to understand._

_"Tom—" the brother tried again._

_"You've got to the count of three, kid."_

_"Nic—"_

_"One."_

_"It's okay, Tony."_

_"Two."_

_"Nic!"_

_"Tell Mama and Papa I—"_

_"Three."_

_Lerror pulled the trigger. There was a crack like thunder, and Nicola stumbled backwards until he hit the wall and collapsed against it, tripping over Anthony on the way. He shoved Anthony down and away from him, put a shaky hand up to his shoulder. He looked up, his eyes catching the dim light, terrified. His features contorted with pain. Blood dripped down his chest from where the bullet caught his shoulder, and it coated his hand too._

_Crack._

_His head snapped back. The wall was sprayed with blood and other things. The body fell. Anthony screamed and went into shock; he didn't remember anything else. All he could see was the body of his older brother, slumped in the corner._

"Racetrack? RACETRACK!"

"Jesus Christ, he ain't waking up—"

"Shake 'im—"

"I _am_ shakin' 'im!"

"Oh my God, what's going on, why's he _screaming_ like that?"

_"Christ, Tom, how the hell are we gonna get paid if—"_

_"It shows we're serious."_

_"You _killed_ the kid!"_

_"Yeah." Lerror started back for the stairs. "C'mon." He started up them, his brother and the card players following silently. No one knew what to say. There was nothing_ to _say._

_Nicola Verdi was dead._

_Anthony Verdi scrambled to the opposite corner of his prison, where he couldn't see the corpse anymore, and then threw up everything that was in his stomach. He closed his eyes, tried to block it out, but it just played in his mind, over and over again._

_His brother had been killed. Killed trying to save him._

Someone slapped him.

He blinked. His eyes came back into focus.

The vision didn't fade, but he could see again. He was shaking. He reached for his cards, but found he was shaking too hard to pick them up. No one said anything.

Jack was standing over him; he dropped the hand he'd slapped Racetrack with. "Race?" he asked.

Race shook his head. "I—" he said shakily, but couldn't even say anything.

"You okay?"

He nodded.

"You'se a liar." Jack gave a nervous laugh. "What happened to that famous poker face, huh?"

_"They killed 'im, Jack…"_ he whispered, barely audible. _"An' it was my fault…"_

"Racetrack, what're you talkin' about?"

"N-nothing," Race said. He curled his fingers around the cards, and from there it was automatic. Just muscle memory. He began to shuffle the cards.

"Hey," Jack said to everyone who was staring—which was everyone. "Hey, you guys get back to bed. Race's okay. Just had a nightmare, right?"

"Yeah," Race said weakly. He kept shuffling the cards. He wanted to get out of there so badly, away from the room, away from the people staring at him. But he couldn't walk until he stopped shaking. And he had to shuffle the cards, to calm himself down.

It took forever. Or at least it felt like forever. Nervously, most of the guys returned to their beds; Jack didn't, though. He sat down on the foot of Race's bed and just waited. Race glanced around. Blink must have come in while he was asleep, or whatever he'd been, because he was there too now. He and Mush were sitting up on Mush's bed.

"I'm okay," Race murmured. "'S okay. You can go ta bed. I'm okay."

"Yeah, sure you is." Jack leant against the bedpost that held up his own bunk above Racetrack's, making himself comfortable.

Race's hands stopped shaking after another minute. So did the rest of him. He slipped the cards into his pocket and stood. His body protested, but only a little, so he walked over to the window and let himself out. He didn't feel up to climbing down and heading into the city, so he just leant against the railing and stared out at the building across from him.

He knew Jack was following him, but stopped behind him, lurking just beyond the edge of his vision. Then there was the sound of some more shuffling, other people stepping out. He didn't need to turn around to see them; even exhausted Race could tell people by sound. Jack he could almost see, but Mush and Blink—who else?—he knew by instinct. The sound of nervous fingers scraping against a leather belt; Mush shifting his bodyweight to be more comfortable, maybe just the tiniest bit closer to Blink… He could have counted a dozen more signs to tell him who it was.

_That ain't normal, is it?_ he thought to himself, reaching into his pocket, closing his hand around the deck of cards. _It ain't _normal_ to memorize things like I do, 'cause I don't trust no one… Lookit Blink and Mush, they trust each other completely, even after everything they been through. An' Jack's got David an' Sarah an' never worries about things like this. So why me?_ He shuddered. He knew why. _It ain't normal… Maybe I _am_ crazy._

He pulled out the cards and began to shuffle against the railing. He didn't say anything. No one else did, either; no one was sure what to say.

"I…" He started, then paused and finished flitting the cards so they fit together. "I ain't crazy," he said out into the night, not daring to turn around and face his friends. He still felt too shaky for that. "I _ain't."_

"No one said you is," Jack said quietly behind him. "We's just worried is all. You… You ain't had a nightmare like that in a long time, an' your eyes was _open…"_

Racetrack paused in his shuffling and stared down at the ground beneath his feet. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "Dreams like that make a guy wanna stay awake."

"That why you can't sleep?"

"Yeah." He shivered, partly from the wind and partly from the memory. "Yeah, I…" He swallowed. He had to tell someone. Maybe if he told someone, he could get it over with, get it out of his system… Maybe it would stop tormenting him every night. "I decided what I think happened to Anthony Verdi," he said finally.

"Oh… Yeah?" Jack asked, sounding confused at the sudden topic change. Behind Race's back, he glanced back at Mush and Blink, who were quietly waiting to see if they'd be needed or wanted, leaning against the side of the building. They shrugged, almost in unison; they had no idea either.

"Yeah," Race said. He began to shuffle again. "Yeah… His parents were pretty well off, right? Not… Not real _rich,_ but they had enough. They was comfortable. Lived in a nice apartment, sent the kids to some real good private school. An' Louis Verdi, he owned a business or somethin' like that. Fired a guy who didn't show up on time, who gave him a lot of grief, who couldn't cut it.

"The guy went crazy or somethin', he musta. Decided he'd get paid somehow. Decided to kidnap Verdi's kids, hold 'em for ransom. Thomas Lerror. Real mean guy, real crazy… Had a brother, a couple a' friends, they was kinda like a gang. No one really wanted to do it, neither, but he made 'em, planned it out, made it seem so easy…

"On the way home from school one day, he an' a few of the others grabbed the kids. Knocked 'em out, dragged 'em home… Locked 'em in a basement." His voice almost broke, but he made himself continue. "Sent a message to Verdi, told him he wanted money for 'em, lotsa money, but Verdi didn't want to be blackmailed. Wouldn't pay. Sent the police after 'em.

"But Lerror was smart, real smart, an' had everythin' under control. Police didn't find 'im. Month or so went by, things was gettin' _nuts._ Verdi wanted his kids back real bad, but wouldn' stoop ta payin' off Lerror, I guess. Lerror had the kids… Kept 'em… Jus' locked in the basement. It was real dark down there, an' not too big, an' hot all day an' cold all night, an'…"

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking again; he was afraid he'd drop the cards off the fire escape but didn't dare stop shuffling. He stared down at his hands as he shuffled, something he hadn't needed to do in years.

"One night, Lerror lost it. Decided to show everyone he meant _business._ So he… He…" He shuddered, barely able to say it. "He shot Nicola, twice. Killed him, in front a' the rest of the gang, an' in front a' his brother… Was gonna shoot Anthony, but Nicola wouldn't let 'im. Protected his little brother. _Died_ to protect his brother…"

Hot tears stung his face, he ignored them. They stopped after a minute.

"…He, he left the body there for a few days before they buried it, right in that same basement, under the floor… The floor was half mud anyway… An' the thing was, Verdi didn't believe… He didn't believe they'd killed Nicola. Refused to. Still refused to pay.

"Some more time went on, I guess. Lerror… He musta realized that he wasn't gonna _get_ 'is money, started lookin' for a way out… Couldn't see one. Started to plan ta kill Anthony an' be done with it, run for it. But his brother couldn't stand it. No one had wanted him to kill Nicola, they was too afraid of gettin' caught when it wasn't easy the way Lerror said it would be, an' I guess his brother felt _real_ guilty, 'cause one day…

"He came down ta the basement. Anthony was real scared, he'd heard 'em talkin' about killin' him, an' he'd been down there for so long… Months, more than two months. Almos' three, I guess. But Chris Lerror didn't want ta hurt him. Instead he, he snuck 'im out. Told 'im to run home, then called the cops on his brother, an' himself. They was all caught an' arrested an' put in jail… But no one could find Anthony. Chris Lerror didn't dare say he'd helped him escape, 'cause he didn't want ta risk his brother findin' out, an' he felt _real_ guilty about Nicola an' all… They was all put in jail for double-murder. But Anthony wasn't dead…

"He didn't know where he was, though. He found his way back inta the city somehow, but couldn't figure out where he was s'posed ta go… He was too scared ta go home. He'd got his brother killed for him, an'… His parents wouldn't want him back after that. How could they? He knew that, so he jus' wandered aroun'. He didn't even know when the Lerrors was arrested, so he got _real_ scared all the time, always afraid that someone was lookin' for him, real… Whaddayacallit… Paranoid, yeah.

"Made up a different name for himself, made himself stop thinkin' about things. Forced it all outta his mind, refused ta even think about it, so much that he barely even remembered his real name. Barely remembered what happened… Wandered through the streets, beggin' an' starvin' an' afraid all the time… He could make himself forget about it when he was awake, but he kept havin' dreams about it all night… So he jus' stopped sleepin'. It was easier.

"He became a real bad insomniac, real fast. It was how he kept… How he stayed sane… He was only nine or ten years old, an' prob'ly woulda died on the streets, but he ran inta some newsies an' they loaned him money for papes, showed him how ta sell… An' life seemed almos' normal after that. He had friends, but he never… He didn't trust 'em, ya know? It wasn't their fault, he was jus' afraid deep down still, paranoid, kept to himself…

"But livin' with so many people like that, no way to _keep_ things to himself, so he started ta pretend, ta act different than he felt, right? Started ta joke around, was real funny, real cheerful all the time so no one thought nothin' about him, ever… But he still couldn't sleep at night.

"For years, he couldn't sleep at night. But almos' no one noticed, an' no one who _did_ notice knew why anyway…" He trailed off. "An' then," he said finally, "Lerror escaped from jail, an' things went ta hell.

"He couldn't keep it out of his mind no more. Started havin' dreams again, whenever he tried to sleep. Tried so damn hard not ta sleep…

"I must sound crazy, but you _gotta_ believe me. I ain't crazy, I _ain't._"

"We believe you, Race," Jack said quietly, and put a hand on his shoulder. "…Anthony."

"Don't call me that. _Please_ don't call me that…"

"Okay."

He finally turned around, not sure what to expect his friends to say or do different. He figured they'd be scared of him, or shocked, or not believe him… But they just looked concerned. "Is there anything we can do to help?" Mush asked quietly after a long silence.

Racetrack shrugged a little. "Nah," he said. "Jus'… Jus' stay up with me for awhile…"

"Sure thing," Blink agreed. "Ya wanna play poker?"

"You _must_ feel bad for me, if you'se _offerin'_ ta play poker." And there it was, the façade he'd always thrown up, taking over like it had become an instinct. He was joking. There he was, standing on the fire escape trying to convince himself not to fall off it, and he was making a _joke._

Race was more terrified by it than he was proud of it.

"Well, you ain't got the best poker face right now," Blink answered, pulling Race out of his thoughts before he could lose himself in them again, and Mush swatted Blink for the comment. "What? I didn't mean nothin' by it!"

Mush hit him again, and Jack rolled his eyes. If Race wasn't still so shaky, he'd have smiled. They were his friends. They were _really_ his friends.

"I'll go easy on ya," he promised, as Blink lead the way inside by ducking back in the window. He and Jack hesitated just another second longer. "Jack?" he asked.

"Yeah, Race?"

"Thanks."

"Sure thing, Race."


	8. seven

**Seven.**

Dawn crept in through the window. "Gee," Kloppman said sarcastically, "ain't you two _cute _together?"

Jack sat up, realizing he'd drifted off on Race's bed at some point. He wondered how long ago… "Ah, shaddup, Kloppman," he moaned, and glanced over at Race, who was playing solitaire now.

"Yeah, yeah. Outta bed, ya slacker. You too, Race, get up…" He turned around and stole the pillow out from under Mush, who groaned. "There's papes ta sell, you layabouts, it's time to get up, _up_ I said, outta bed…"

They groaned their way over to the bathroom and began to wash up. Race almost cracked a smile. He hadn't gotten sleep, of course, but he felt… Refreshed, somehow. How late had they stayed up playing poker?

And more importantly, how much money had he won off them?

_Nah,_ he told himself, _it ain't more important, not really._

He felt almost back to normal. Getting it off his chest _had_ helped. Some. He still found himself watching everyone else in the mirror while he shaved, making sure no one could come up behind him—_Definitely ain't normal.—_but at least he wasn't scared of his own shadow anymore. Not quite.

The group passed Kloppman, grabbed a quick handout breakfast from the nuns, and lined up for papers. Snitch dutifully read the headline aloud; Lerror still hadn't been captured. Race shuddered, Jack put a hand on his shoulder, and they waited to buy their papers.

"You sellin' at the tracks today?" Snitch asked eagerly.

"You still set on tryin' ta catch Lerror?"

"Sure thing, if I can. Hundred an' fifty dollar reward, you'se _crazy_ if you don' wanna sell at the tracks jus' in _case._"

Race opened his mouth to answer, but Blink cut him off. "He ain't crazy." He glared at Snitch defiantly, and Mush threw an arm around Race. Snitch gave them a strange look, but shrugged a little.

"Yeah," Mush yawned. "You sellin' with us again today?"

Race debated, then nodded. No reason to press his luck; he was feeling a bit better and he didn't want to run into Lerror by accident and make it start again.

"Yeah, I guess," Race answered.

"Two days inna row you ain't goin' ta Sheepshead? You feelin' okay?" Snitch asked curiously.

"Course he ain't, he was screamin' 'is head off all last night, 'member?" Skittery pointed out, elbowing Snitch as he spoke.

"Yeah, what _was_ that, Race? You looked like you'd seen a ghost or somethin' when Jack woke you up."

Race shrugged. He had no idea what to say to that. He _felt_ like he'd seen a ghost. But Jack smacked Snitch on the back of his head and told him to leave it alone, and then the window opened for business. Race had to spot Mush and Blink some cash, having won most of theirs, but didn't mind.

Race set out with everyone else and they met David and Les at the gate; they took off with Jack and left Race to sell with Blink and Mush. The three wandered aimlessly for a bit, looking for somewhere unoccupied, and then Race stopped abruptly and pointed over at a building.

"New York City Jail?" Mush asked, slowly sounding out the words carved in stone over the top of the doorway. "So?"

Race glanced at the day's front page article, skimmed it until he saw what he was looking for. _Christopher Lerror remains under close watch in the New York City Jail, while police continue to search for his brother._ "He's in there," Race murmured and started towards the building.

"So?" Mush said again.

Race shrugged. "I gotta…" he trailed off. "I guess I _am_ crazy. But he—I'd be dead if he hadn't—" He stopped. "I gotta find out why he helped me."

Mush and Blink exchanged links. "You sure that's a good idea, Race?" Blink asked. "I mean… If it wasn't for him—"

"It wasn't him. It was his brother," Race said, "and he helped me. I gotta know _why."_

"Awright," Mush finally said, hesitantly. "I guess… If you gotta know, but don't… I mean, will they let you see him, you think?"

"I don't know." Race shrugged. "But I can try, right?"

"Sure."

"I guess we'll wait around here…" Blink agreed. "Try an' do some sellin'."

* * *

It turned out that getting to see a prisoner who was already in the City Jail was fairly easy; the difficult part would have been getting him _to_ the right jail. But the police wanted to keep a better eye on him until his brother was captured again, so they'd moved him into the City Jail, and it was easy to get to talk to him.

He glanced down at the book he was supposed to sign in to. "You know how to write?" the policeman watching asked.

Race nodded, not sure what to put down, and not able to use his real name. Hesitantly, he wrote _Tony Higgins,_ since he doubted they'd accept Racetrack.

"Chris Lerror says he doesn't want to see any reporters," the policeman warned.

"Do I look like a reporter?" Race answered.

He tapped the next column. "How do you know him? What business are you here on?"

"Uh." Race glanced at what the other things in the column said, and echoed most of them. _Friend,_ he wrote for relation; _Casual visit,_ he put it the second. The policeman shrugged and led him through the jail, into a series of hallways that then turned into a thin alley between barred jail cells. Most of them had tough looking prisoners staring out; Race could hear the chatter further down, but everyone went silent when they walked by.

They stopped at one cell and unlocked it. The policeman gestured in, and Race stepped in. The door shut and locked behind him. "I'll be back in a few," the officer said.

Christopher Lerror looked up, started. He looked like he was in his late thirties, with light brown hair, and Race backed up until he could feel cold bars at his back when he saw the criminal. A thousand memories shot through his mind and he was momentarily paralyzed, then took a deep breath.

Lerror stared at him. "Who _are_ you?"

"Tony Higgins," Racetrack said, his voice breaking. His throat felt very dry.

"I don't remember any Tony Hig…" He trailed off. "_Anthony_ Higgins?"

"Yeah."

"You—" he stopped again. "Anthony."

"Yes."

_"That_ Anthony?"

"Yeah."

Racetrack crossed his arms nervously, wishing he could start playing with his cards, but feeling too awkward to move at all.

They stood in silence for a minute.

"So," Lerror finally said. "You want something, Tony Higgins?"

"Just wanted to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why… Why'd you help?"

"Help you? Or help Tom?"

"Both."

Lerror nodded and stared off into space for a minute. Finally, he started talking, and Race tapped his fingers against his knees nervously.

"Tom was my brother. I didn't like what we were doing but… I never thought he'd really go through with it, and I never thought it would get so out of hand… Oh, Christ, I never thought he'd _hurt_ anyone, I never thought—I never thought he'd kill anyone." He shrugged a little, but couldn't look up at Racetrack. "And I helped you because I guess… I mean, Tom had lost it, totally lost it. And Nicola was already dead, and so when he started talking about getting rid of… _Anthony…_ I knew he was serious by then, and I couldn't…

"You know, I've barely slept in the past seven years. I can't… Whenever I close my eyes, I see Nicola's body hit the wall, and the floor, and the blood, and Anthony's _face,_ and…"

"Insomnia," Racetrack murmured.

"Yeah."

"I can't sleep, neither. I dream about the basement…"

"I'm sorry. I mean, I know saying it isn't… It can't do anything, but… Oh, Christ, I'm sorry."

"It ruined my life," Racetrack said, mostly to himself. "I mean… I had a family, I was a pretty smart kid, I… After… I never went home."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I guess my dad didn't care so much if he wouldn't pay. And it was my fault… I mean, Nick was protecting me… How could my parents…?"

"It wasn't your fault. It was Tom's, it was mine for helping him, it was nothing to do with you or Nicola."

"But _three months…"_

"No one thought Tom would hurt him, your father was tying to find you," Chris said. "He didn't want to let Tom… _Us… _Get away with it. But they wanted you back, they were worried, they must think you're dead…"

"Yeah. But it's like…" Race trailed off for a second, trying to gather his thoughts; everything felt so scattered and strange. It didn't even feel like _he_ was having this conversation; it was like someone else was talking to Chris Lerror while he watched and listened

He started again. "It's like… Anthony might's well _be_ dead, he an' I ain't the same no more. He was a good kid, I guess, but he ain't _me._ I don' even remember how ta be him, so it's not like I could jus' go _back_ ta bein' him. Not like I could just go back _there."_

Chris nodded slowly. Race wondered if he really understood, and tried to look at it from anyone else's point of view: he had a well off family, who would be grateful to know he was even _alive,_ he could go back to having three meals a day and a roof over his head without breaking his back working to _get_ them. He could almost hear the way everyone else would laugh at him, call him crazy for refusing to go back to that.

_Maybe I am crazy…_

But it was just like he'd tried to explain to Chris: Anthony Verdi might as well _be_ dead. Racetrack just couldn't picture returning home and immediately being overcome with love for his parents; he barely even remembered them, let alone loved them. And they _had_ let him sit in that basement for three months… And Nicola had died… And not only could he not imagine fitting with their world, since the newsie lifestyle was now the only lifestyle he understood how to live, but he figured they probably wouldn't even _want_ him back. Not when Nicola had died for him…

"Will you be okay?" Chris asked, shaking Racetrack out of his thoughts.

Race shrugged. "I guess. I'll survive. I'm real good at that now."

"I guess you would be, huh," Chris commented humorlessly. "I'm sorry I can't help you."

"Yeah, well… I'm alive, so you already did." He shuddered a little.

"Wish I could do more." Chris shook his head. "Never meant it to happen, I never did… I wish we could start again."

Racetrack nodded. "Yeah. That would be nice." He heard the sound of people getting abruptly quiet, and then the policeman appeared.

"You done?" the officer asked.

"Uh…yeah," Racetrack said. He looked back at Chris. "Look, I got friends waiting for me, I oughtta…"

Chris nodded. "Yeah, ok. Uh…"

Race was surprised to find he wasn't shaking anymore. He looked over at Chris, caught his eye, and sighed. "Yeah. Well… Bye, then."

"Bye. Good luck."

And with that he followed the policeman back out of the prison, and glanced around until he found Mush and Blink selling on one of the far corners. He waved a little and walked up to join them, accepted a pile of newspapers from Mush, and headed across the street to sell. He felt kind of dazed, still, and was pretty sure that Mush and Blink could tell; every time he glanced over at them, Mush was watching him, looking concerned. Of course, as soon as Mush caught him watching as he was watched, Mush would guiltily turn away.

Race had to smile at that, just a tiny bit. For all his instincts might have told him to be wary, there was almost no way _not_ to trust Mush. He glanced over again, between customers, and saw Blink saying something, elbowing Mush in the ribs and grinning, which meant it was probably a dirty joke he'd just remembered. Mush smiled and laughed a little, and shook his head in vague wonder of where Blink _got_ things like that, and then they turned back to shouting headlines, back to back, almost touching.

The unstoppable team, across the street. While Race stood on his corner alone, watching.

He gave them a very slight smile, more sad than anything else, and turned his attention back to his own selling. That was just the way his life was, though he wondered sometimes if it _had_ to be that way… With everything that had happened lately. He had to wonder… What _would_ it be like if he could just start again?

* * *

Four hours of sleep, and the next morning, Racetrack had _energy_. He hadn't felt so good in a week, at least; it wasn't _much_ sleep but it had been solid and he hadn't dreamed of anything at all. He was all smiles and jokes as the group got ready for the day and made their way to the distribution office, a genuine spring in his step.

"Look at this weather," he crowed, inhaling deeply. "_Look_ at the sky, there ain't a cloud in it. It's so _nice_ out."

Jack raised an eyebrow and Mush and Blink threw each other confused looks, and Racetrack noticed—he noticed _everything_—but he didn't care. He grinned.

"You ever seen a sky that blue, Snitch?" he asked as Snitch tried to read the headlines. "I ain't never, that's for sure."

"What is _wrong_ with you, Higgins?" Skittery asked dully.

"Stop being such a dope, Skitts my lad." Racetrack punched Skittery's shoulder. "'S a _fine_ morning out."

He saw Mush lean over to Jack. "'S he gonna be like this _every_ time he gets some sleep?"

Jack laughed a little. "Sure hope so."

Racetrack stopped pounding on Skittery's arm, and Skittery straightened his shirt with all the dignity he could muster, and Snitch read the headlines. Another sighting of Lerror, but there was no real _news._ The papers were just milking the story now.

He turned to Race. "Race, can Skitts an' I—"

"Uh, _no,"_ Race answered. "I ain't been to the track in days, an' it's _my_ sellin' spot."

Snitch grumbled and Skittery rolled his eyes and Racetrack bounced off to the front of the line. He couldn't believe how good he felt. The spring air felt _nice_ this early, before all the heat of the city built up and it got too hot to move. And he was actually genuinely _cheerful,_ and he felt confident enough to head back to the racetrack. A rumor wasn't enough to stop him.

"You sure you'll be all right, Race? At the track?" Jack asked, as they walked over to the gate to meet David and Les.

"I think so. I got some shut eye last night, Cowboy. It was _great._ I ain't felt this good in _ages._ I got sleep at _night_ an' everything."

"You're a weird one, Race." But Jack caught Race's eye and they both knew he hadn't said _crazy_ deliberately.

"Well, whatever you says, Jack. Ta ta, my lad."

Following behind Jack, Mush asked, "Has he _ever_ called anyone 'lad' before?"

"What's got into him?" David added, watching as Racetrack hopped a trolley.

* * *

They sky stayed blue and the tracks were flooded with people. Race only had to spice the headline up a little; since the story mentioned the racetrack, people were desperate to read it. He'd bought seventy papers and fifty of them were gone by lunch. He hoisted the remaining papers up onto his shoulder and stepped into line for one of the venders.

"Your usual, Higgins?"

Race nodded, and then added, "Actually, today I'll take it with _all_ the toppings, I think."

"Oh yeah? You having a good day?"

"I definitely had a good night." Race smirked.

The vendor whistled. "I figured you for a lady killer, kid. That's three cents extra."

Race dutifully forked out three extra cents and let the vendor—one of the many who knew him on sight, one of the few who knew him by name—keep up his illusions that Racetrack had been with a girl. That was a happy enough illusion.

Race took a seat in the stands, papers in his lap, and eagerly ate his hotdog. It tasted much better than he'd expected, and he watched the gathering for the next race intently, annoyed anytime someone stepped in his way.

Until he saw the figure. The right height, the right weight, the right _face._ He dropped his hotdog and stood, papers slipping off his lap, and _stared._ But Thomas Lerror didn't notice him, he was watching the race.

A thousand images flooded through his mind. His parents, somehow, his brother, Chris Lerror in jail, blood, vomit, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. But he locked it down.

He'd escaped from jail. And the son of a bitch _deserved_ to be in jail.

"Hey!" Racetrack heard himself yelling at the top of his lungs, barely aware of what he was doing. _"Hey,_ it's Lerror from the papers. _It's the killer!"_

He pointed frantically and the next thing he knew, people flooded past him, around him, yelling and shouting and he could barely see and had to stand on his tiptoes. But Lerror took off, looking panicked, and someone tripped him and he kept scrambling forward, but then one of the bulls was there and grabbed him, sent them both flying down onto the seats. And another was there, and another. Racetrack hadn't realized how many policemen were even at the race, and then realized they were probably there looking for the escaped prisoner.

People were yelling even louder than they did for the races, as two of the policemen handcuffed Lerror and marched him out of the racetrack. And the third began to scan the stands, looking around for something, Racetrack realized, then his eyes went wide as the policeman stopped on him. "Hey, you—kid!"

But Racetrack took off, leaving his papers behind, and didn't stop until he was safely hidden under the bleachers, where he could hear the uproar settle down.

He leaned back against a support beam and took a deep breath.

He felt his hands shake slightly and saw Lerror's face in his mind, but reached for his cards and laid out a game of solitaire, and told himself that Lerror was in jail again. Lerror wouldn't be able to hurt him again, or kill anyone again.

It was _over._

"Racetrack, Racetrack, didja _see?"_

"Was you there? Did you get a look at it?"

"What happened, Race, we all heard about—"

"C'mon, tell us—"

"Racetrack—"

"Hey, _hey!"_ Jack yelled, stepping in front of Racetrack as he was swarmed by newsboys. "Let the guy sit down, huh?" Then, aside to Race, "Uh… _did_ you see?"

Racetrack pulled his hat off and wiped a little sweat way from his forehead. "Yeah," he said casually, "I saw it. I saw the whole thing." He raised an eyebrow and smirked at the onlookers, who had gone silent, and he wondered how the news of the arrest had traveled so quickly.

"Well?" someone finally burst out. "Tell us about it!"

"Hmm." Racetrack walked through the room and took a seat at an old, wooden table, battered from years of use. He pulled out his cards and shuffled thoughtfully. "Maybe I will."

_"Racetrack,_ c'mon…"

"But first," he smirked, "who wants to play poker?"

* * *

"So, uh," Jack mumbled, sitting down on Race's bunk, glancing around like he was the paranoid one. "I gotta ask… _did_ that Verdi kid recognize him, like Snitch said?"

Race shrugged. "Nah. Rumors say it was just some newsboy."

"You left that out when you told us."

"Yeah, well…"

"You don't want the reward?"

"Nah. I don't want to have to… I don't want people to _know,_ I mean. About me. Who I was."

Jack nodded. "Okay, well… Good going, Race. You did good."

"I _know."_ Race grinned. "I'm too excited to sleep."

"Figures." But Jack smiled. "'Night, Race."

"'Night, Jack."

And Racetrack's hands weren't shaking as he shuffled the cards, preparing to play solitaire.


	9. epilogue

Epilogue.

The sun was beating down on Sheepshead as Racetrack wandered down by the track, trying to sell off his last few papers. A few of the racetrack's workers nodded at him, one bought a paper, and he wandered near the stables. He'd been doing that a lot, lately; watching the jockeys and the trainers go in and out with the horses.

A loud yell echoed from inside, and then two people yelling loudly.

"Goddamn beast stepped on my _foot_, I can't fuckin' _walk!"_

"Well I'm busy, and someone has to walk the damn thing!"

"I gotta get to a hospital, it'll turn _black,_ oh my _god…"_

"Stop being such a fucking baby, you moron, it ain't gonna…"

Racetrack hesitantly walked closer and could see the two people fighting; one holding the reigns of one of the racehorses, the other clutching one foot. The horse threw its head back and shook its mane, and the guy holding on to it swore. "She's fuckin' _antsy_ and I got real work to do, so stop being such a—"

He broke off and saw Racetrack standing in the doorway.

"Uh… Buy a pape, sir?" Racetrack asked.

The guy frowned. "Kid, you look familiar."

"I sell here a lot."

He cleared his throat. "There's this _rumor,_" he said. "About some newsboy being the one who called the alarm on Lerror."

"Yeah, I heard that." Race shrugged. "Gotta say I'm jealous. Wish it was me, I could use the money."

"You need some cash, kid?"

"Yeah, wouldn't mind some…" Race cocked his head and gave them an odd look.

The man turned to whoever he'd been yelling at—a stable hand, judging by his clothing, Racetrack guessed. "You, go… Go do something with your damn foot." He rolled his eyes. "Kid, I need someone ta walk this horse around the track a couple times to get her calmed down, cooled off 'cause she just ran."

"Uh… Okay."

"I can pay you a buck fifty if you do it and bring her back here. One of the other stable hands will be back by then, can show you what to do with her, and then you come find me an' I'll pay you. Sound fair?"

Racetrack nodded.

"Well? Get over here."

So he walked over. The man—Jenkins, he said his name was—handed Racetrack the reigns, warned him that if the horse got away there'd be hell to pay, and sent him back out to the track. And Racetrack talked softly to the horse and she didn't try and bolt, and for the first time, Racetrack looked up the stands from the track instead of the other way around.

The going away party was a tradition; anyone who lived at the lodging house for awhile had a party when he finally moved out. For years, Jack and Mush and the rest had watched older kids move out and move on, but this was the first time one of their friends was leaving.

"Can't believe he's really leavin' for _real," _Blink said drunkenly, and Mush rolled his eyes. But then, Mush did that a lot when Blink had Hannah sitting on his lap, Race noticed. Of course he noticed. Race noticed _everything._

"I think you had enough to drink," Mush answered, and Hannah giggled a little bit.

"Nah, haven't had barely any at all," Blink objected, as Mush tried to take the bottle out of his hand. "Race, it's your party, tell 'im I ain't had too much ta drink!"

"He's okay," Race assured Mush.

"You'se just sayin' that 'cause _you_ ain't gonna have ta deal with 'im tomorrow mornin'!" He gave up trying to pry the bottle out of Blink's hand, but when Hannah reached for it, Blink surrendered it willingly. Mush rolled his eyes. Hannah handed Mush the bottle, and he hesitated, then threw a _look_ at Blink and Hannah, and downed the rest of it himself.

Race smiled. Sometimes, they were so… _Them._

"Yeah," Race agreed, grinning, more than a bit drunk himself.

"Not you, too," Mush groaned. "Ain't you s'posed to be _sober_ so we can talk about your… Like, everything you done, or whatever?"

"Drinkin's more fun," Race slurred. "Unless you'd rather play cards."

"No way," Mush said.

"Hey, hey," Jack announced, trying to get people's attention. "Listen, we gotta make a toast, right? 'Cause we'se here to celebrate Racetrack leavin'. I mean, not celebrate _that_ he's leavin', but celebrate be_cause_ he's—aw, nevermind, I'm too drunk ta make sense. Anyone wanna say a toast?" He waited for a minute, then, "Aw, ta hell with it. Dave, you'se the only one who's sober 'nough ta do it, an you'se the best at talkin' anyways."

David blushed and murmured a disclaimer, but Jack pulled him to his feet. It wasn't often David went to parties at the lodging house, but this was a special occasion. "Okay," he sighed. "Let's see, where to begin…"

"The gamblin'!"' someone yelled. "How he always cheats an' steals our money!"

"I ain't never _got_ ta cheat!" Race yelled back.

Dave cleared his throat. "All right," he agreed. "Well, we all know Racetrack's pretty good with cards. I mean, I've never played him myself, but I can't _tell_ you how many mornings I've had to spot Jack for papers 'cause he'd lost all his money in a poker game."

David paused to keep thinking, and someone else yelled out something about the races, and he took it from there, then someone said something about wise cracking, and… It went on and on.

Racetrack found himself awash in memories and goodwill. Endless stories of card games where he'd pulled off the impossible, how he would casually lend money to anyone who needed it and pretend it wasn't a big deal, how he always had a way to make even the most depressed guy in the city laugh.

It was late enough that it was actually early by the time the party broke up. Racetrack was glad he was a happy drunk, despite the odds against it, because otherwise he'd be wallowing in the misery of leaving the newsies, having finally found out what they really thought of him. His paranoia for all those years was for nothing; they really, honestly liked him. But he couldn't deny how excited he was, either; he'd been offered a job working in the stables. The horses liked him, Jenkins said, and he already knew his way around the track pretty well anyway. And they were looking for a new guy or two…

He collapsed into his bunk in the lodging house for the last time, his head still swimming from the booze. It was so strange to realize that this _was_ the last time; this was the ending of his life as Racetrack Higgins. Starting tomorrow, he'd be Anthony again—but a different Anthony, a grown man making a name and a life for himself.

It was a strange thought. But at least, now he could hope that the new life wouldn't include nightmares. After all, he'd be looking back on seven years spent as a newsie, not on three months spent in hell. He hoped.

Maybe it was that hope, or maybe he'd just had too much to drink. Either way, Anthony Racetrack Higgins collapsed into bed, and for the first time in as long as anyone could remember, he slept soundly until morning.

* * *

**FINISHED! It's only been...nearly three years since the first chapter of this went up, and over four since I actually started writing it. The albatross is finally off my neck, and it's done! **

** Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed, and to my excellent beta readers: TSB, Harmony, and Shimmerwings (wherever you are...). **

** Ta-daaaaaa bows  
**


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